Services
by Madam Otaku
Summary: Buffy's friends and family attend her funeral. A story told from a Season 6 perspective, focusing mostly on the Scoobies and Spike.


"They call him 'William the Bloody' because of his bloody awful poetry

  
  


Title: Services (or "A Slayer and Two Funerals") - Part 1 (of 2)

By: Hel

Rating: G

Summary: A fic about two "after"life-changing funerals. I'll give a cookie to anyone who can guess which two. J 

Spoilers: End of Season 5, beginning of Season 6

Author's Notes: This is a subject that has no doubt been done to death. ;) This fic is written from a "beginning of Season 6" perspective, though…meaning, how I think everyone might have gotten to where they are now emotionally. The title refers not only to a funeral service, but also to the "services" we get from and provide to the people in our lives. The absence of people from the Angel cast will be explained in the second part, but the quick excuse is that they didn't fit into my idea, so I excluded them. SORRY! ^^;; 

BTW, this is my first BTVS fic, and it's un-betaed. I assure you my spelling and grammar are real good, tho. ;) Any and all feedback is welcomed with ravenous glee. 

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The service was small and understated, a bare-bones affair with a heavy feel of the generic. The funeral director stood to the side looking impatient for the whole thing to finish, making it obvious that this was not one of his favorite or more profitable clients. Truth was, he had been a bit put off by this particular job from the beginning. There was almost no actual family, just a young sister, and only one person who could really be considered an adult in the group of friends involved. There was no mother, grandparents, aunts, uncles, or cousins, and the father was apparently almost unreachable. Even more odd, they hadn't requested that any notifications be sent out or placed an ad in the obituaries. The adult friend, an Englishman, had specifically made a point of telling him that none of that should be done, in fact. It was to be a very strictly private service, he'd said, with a select group of attendees. There was a strange redhead in the group who'd been the only other one who'd bothered him at all about the details. She'd been completely obsessive about what kind of flowers to have, tearing through the catalogue as she sobbed, stopping occasionally to show him a picture and ask if a certain arrangement looked "too gloomy" or "too perky". Otherwise, it was all very hastily thrown together, like a sad afterthought of an all too brief life. At first he'd worried that these were all signs that money was going to be a major issue, but was surprised to find that there'd been adequate insurance money when the mother had died not too long before. This was a big relief, but it was also a bit unsettling.

The client herself was painfully young and beautiful, and had left behind unusually flawless remains. The younger ones were most commonly victims of car wrecks and other mangling mishaps of drug and alcohol abuse. The cause of death of this girl was something of a mystery though. No sign of poisoning, disease, or internal or external trauma. It was pretty freaky, the guy on duty at the coroner's had said. In the end, they'd just shrugged their shoulders and listed the official cause of death as "heart failure". 

This situation set off an alarm in his head, one particular to Sunnydale funeral directors. This was a very good town to be in the funeral home business, no doubt about it, but that prosperity came with certain risks. In specific kinds of cases, bodies tended to disappear or not behave the way that bodies should. He knew about the high number of deaths in Sunnydale caused by dramatic blood loss but with little blood actually found next to the body. He'd worked with enough corpses that had been dismembered, ritualistically mutilated, or marked with small puncture wounds. He knew the score. There was a crucifix and stake in the preparation room. This girl had no punctures or marks of any kind on her body though, but that didn't make him feel any better. He couldn't control appearing rudely antsy and hurried. He really, really wanted these people and this body out of his place.

Anya stood uncomfortably by herself several feet away from Xander…against her will. She really very much wanted to be next to him with his nice, comforting, muscular man-arm around her shoulders so that she could lean her head into his neck and rest it there, inhaling his Xandery smell, but she couldn't. She couldn't because Willow was currently occupying that space, which was rightfully HER space but she couldn't really say anything about it because Willow had been friends with Xander a lot longer than Anya had known him so she kind of had dibs on him in these situations even though that seemed unfair because SHE was the girlfriend and one would think that Willow should respect that. She didn't know what to do with herself. Everybody seemed to forget that she had just as many sad, bewildered "dead Buffy" feelings as anyone else did even if she didn't really know how to communicate them. Why couldn't anyone ever seem to understand these things about her? Nobody was there to hug her, so she hugged herself self-consciously. 

Suddenly she felt a soft, warm hand on her shoulder and she turned her head to see Tara, whose eyes met hers gently and kindly. The smallest, sad smile flitted over Tara's mouth for a moment, and Anya couldn't help but return it. She liked Tara. She was simple and not frustrating. She never said or did things she didn't mean to cover up what she really felt. She was nice and always tried to be understanding. They didn't speak, but Anya felt strangely comforted.

The two watched their lovers from a distance. Willow and Xander were holding each other up, neither one of them steady enough to support the other, but somehow remaining upright nevertheless. After a few silent moments, Tara touched Anya's elbow reassuringly to tell her that it was okay to approach them. 

They walked over to the pair, who stood over Buffy's open casket, talking too low to hear. It seemed that, if you squinted your eyes, you could picture them in a similar situation as children, standing over the grave of some beloved pet as they cuddled each other and whispered in the secret language of lifelong friends. Anya and Tara felt the intensity of this connection, and did not break its bubble of privacy out of respect. They stood on either side of their respective partners, making themselves available when needed. 

Immediately Willow turned to look at Tara, her eyes full and round and wet. Such heartbreak and disbelief in those eyes…it tore at Tara's heart. Willow's hand leapt out and tightly grasped hers, which was resting on the casket, and Tara mouthed the words "Oh, baby" in despair as tears spilled down her cheeks. She felt utterly helpless…there was no way to mend the gaping hole in her beloved's heart. All she could do, as always, was stand by and provide a few lame words of support. She felt like a cheerleader whose team had just been killed in a bus crash, futilely trying to rouse spirit on an empty field. She leaned in and put her arm around Willow, kissing her shoulder and murmuring words of comfort.

At the same time, Anya looked intently at Xander, hoping that he'd suddenly spin around and bury his face in her hair and crush her in a big, weepy hug. His face was vacant and he was lost in his own world, though, as he always was in these situations. Eventually he looked over at her, gradually sensing her presence. She looked back at him, biting her lip, her mind completely blanking on what to say or how to react to his red-rimmed, watery eyes. They stared at each other for an extended moment, and she felt yet another opportunity to communicate with him slip away as his eyes turned forward and glazed over again. He, Willow, and Tara were one big mass of sniffly, grief-stricken snuggles that Anya found herself desperately wanting to be a part of, but she didn't know how to ask for it, and nobody thought to invite her. So, instead, she reached over and clung to Xander's sleeve as she looked down at Buffy. 

There had to be _something _to say. Anya couldn't take it. If this soggy, heavy silence lasted one second more, she was going to SCREAM. 

"This is a highly satisfactory mourning atmosphere," she said, just a notch too loud to be appropriate. "I'm extremely pleased with it."

Xander grabbed her arm little too tightly, turned to Willow and Tara, and said, "She means to say that you did a wonderful job organizing everything, Wills. Everything is perfect."

"YES," Anya piped up. "That's what I meant. It's all so…pretty. The coffin is obviously made from a high quality wood, and Buffy…Buffy, she looks…" 

Xander shot her a familiar, pointed look that she knew translated as "Whatever you're about to say, for the love of GOD, don't say it!" Willow's tear-streaked face clearly displayed her disgust and irritation. Anya knew that more often than not, Willow wished she'd just go away. Anya looked down at her hands, upset that she'd messed up again despite trying her hardest not to. She cleared her throat and tried to think of something to make a save.

"The flowers!" she said, again, too loudly. "They're very appropriate for the occasion. The bright colors are very comforting."

"Well, _I_ don't think so," Willow retorted, and Anya looked away and scowled. Willow, unlike Tara, was _very_ frustrating. "That's what's wrong with them!" Willow continued. "They're TOO bright! And the arrangements, they're small and dinky. They didn't look this bright, small, and dinky in the catalogue!" She threw out her arms in frustration and began to breathe in huge, gasping sobs. "I've made Buffy's funeral look like a cheap wedding! It's HORRIBLE!" 

Xander held her by the shoulders and massaged them. "No, it's not. It's just right," he murmured into her ear soothingly. "Relax, Willow. You did good. Buffy would really appreciate it." 

Tara approached Willow from the other side and kissed her wet cheeks. "It's beautiful, baby, really," she said in an almost maternal tone as she wiped Willow's tears away. "The flowers aren't small at all. That arrangement over there is pretty big…see how it's kind of poofy?" 

"POOFY?" Willow burst out in horror. "Oh my god, you're RIGHT! It's this giant, monstrous, poofy THING sitting in the middle of the room! It's like some bloated, overdone, Princess Di funeral arrangement! Buffy would HATE this!" She ran over to the arrangement and tore it apart, plucking out flowers and rearranging them to appear less "poofy". The others went to her to try and make her stop, but she pushed them off and went back to the casket. 

"It's all AWFUL," she sobbed, leaning over Buffy's body, her tears falling onto the pale skin caked in makeup. "I mean, look at this dress. That has to be the worst dress in the world! I don't even know why she owned it. She probably only bought it to wear to another funeral." Willow sobbed and laughed at the same time.

"I was going to say something about that," Anya offered helpfully, "but Xander gave me the 'Shut up, Anya' look, so I didn't." 

"I was going to put her in that gorgeous prom dress she had," Willow continued, ignoring Anya. "You know the one, Xander. The one she fought the Master in. The long, white, satiny one. She looked so beautiful in that. But it needed some mending and while I was looking at it, I thought it was too…it didn't seem serious enough. This was the only serious thing we could find in her whole wardrobe. But this dress, it's HIDEOUS! I should have put her in the other one! How can you all say that ANY of this is right? It's wrong…it's all WRONG!" She collapsed, resting her palms and arms on the smooth surface of the casket as she cried on her hands. 

"Well, if she was in a long, white gown, it probably _would_ look like a cheap wedding," Anya said, patting Willow's back gently as she sobbed over Buffy's body. "And, either way, I don't think it matters to Buffy." 

Xander pulled Anya forcefully away from Willow and jerked her to face him. "Listen," he said, his voice angry and low. "When I give you the 'Shut up, Anya' look, then it means you should SHUT UP, ANYA!" 

Instantly Anya broke down under this assault, her legs giving way under her. She fell apart and almost collapsed onto the floor, but Xander supported her. She apologized in hiccuping sobs for not knowing how to be. Terrified by what he saw in her face and full of guilt, he held her then, clinging onto her for dear life. He rocked her and told her that it was okay and that he loved her again and again. Meanwhile, Tara laid herself on top of Willow like a blanket and caressed her hair. 

Spike watched this entire spectacle from a distance, sitting in the back of the room in an empty row of chairs. He observed the hair pulling and screaming, followed by the soft consoling and hugging, all with a cool, experienced eye. It was not something new for him to see, and yet it was something he couldn't feel a connection to, even now. The emptiness inside of him was oddly discomforting. Watching the lovers hold each other made him feel even more cold and alien to their world than usual. He was like a starving orphan gazing longingly through the window of a sweets shop as the rich kids stuffed themselves on chocolate. Part of him yearned to be invited inside, while the other part just wanted to burn the whole place down. 

Spike hated funerals. Some of his old pals used to get off on going to them to watch the survivors weep over some cold hunk of meat and contemplate the end to their own flimsy existence. Making fun of grieving mortals was a big laugh for some, but it didn't give him much pleasure. Attending a funeral wasn't nearly as fun as creating the need for one, he'd always said.

Thinking about something like that would usually give him a chuckle, but it didn't even make him smile this time. There was suddenly no such thing as humor anymore. Pleasure and contentment were also concepts he had only vague memories of. Emotions were all sucked out of the world along with the Slayer - with _Buffy _- and had left behind them only a dull ache within the void that was himself. 

He couldn't ever remember feeling this numb before, not even when he was dead. The Powers That Be had cracked open his skull like a soft-boiled egg, scooped out all the muck and mess inside him, and tossed aside his hollowed-out shell. They'd taken his soul a long time ago, but that wasn't enough for them, obviously. They 'd come back and taken his heart as well…which really wasn't a bother to him since he didn't have the capacity to feel rage anymore, of course, but he couldn't help but wonder why they'd left any part of him at all. 

The only dream and desire left in him was to close himself up inside the coffin with Buffy. He'd be quiet and not disturb her, just wrap his arms around her and rest his head on her cool bosom. He'd be as still and silent as a stone, he swore he would, even as the worms and other hungry little creatures started their nibbling. If he could just lie peacefully next to Buffy and slowly be eaten away with her until their dust mingled together, then perhaps he might know something akin to happiness again.

Tired of this maudlin self-contemplation, Spike turned his eyes to that one little detail it seemed he and everyone else in the room had forgotten…Dawn. She was not involved in the melodramatic sob-fest that the others were. When she'd entered the room she'd only given the body the quickest sideways glance and then hurriedly retreated to a chair in the front row. She kept her eyes cast downwards and her hands folded on her lap, pale and grave as a little nun. He imagined that she was just as numb as he was, if not more. 

The others had surrounded her, all full of concern and love, until they'd walked into the room and seen the body. Then their tight unit had fractured into separate, jumbled pieces. Dawn didn't lift her eyes or react in any way to Willow's outburst or anything that followed it. She seemed to become part of the furniture…you almost couldn't blame them for forgetting she was there. 

Suddenly, as if she'd sensed his eyes on her, Dawn jumped up from her chair, came to the back of the room, and sat next to him without comment. She was not completely oblivious to everything going on around her, then. He looked at her, but her eyes remained on the floor. As he instinctively put an arm around her and felt her body lean into him, he had a flash of understanding that his agony and suicidal desires were no longer important anymore. 

"I HATE flippin' funerals," he said, his voice cracking. "Don't you?" 

She nodded, her downcast eyes sprinkling excess tears onto his coat. She inhaled deeply and let out a long, painful breath. He let her press her face into him, and dutifully allowed her to soak his shirt. 

Then Giles finally showed up, having been out making sure all the final details for the burial, which would have to be done quickly and discreetly, were taken care of. He entered hesitantly, almost apologetically, and gently ushered everyone to their seats. Spike noticed that Giles made himself seem too busy taking care of everyone else to give Buffy much of a look. When everyone was situated, Giles stood at the head of the room. He took off his glasses and played with them in the manner he usually did in uncomfortable situations. 

"Yes, well," he said, and then cleared his throat so as not to sound just as lost and shaky as the children. "I…I think we can begin, everyone."

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Part 2 coming soon…


End file.
